DAY 27. I preferred the noble Roman senate, when it began, when it was a collection of Italic framers, why we call the conscript fathers the framers of the republic to this day, ins of their wives and daughters they tried to protect along with the wheat and crops, from which they made their crowns.
I like a farmhouse of wood, the only affectation the plain dressed the senate when it was filled with honorable men who had to take out time to slop their own pigs, rather than nowadays when its the other way around. –OVID.
DAY 28.Amazingly sold a Party the bunny cartoon as an still making playboy and mad and NatlLampoon caliber hopefully cartoons as an answer to the sanctimony that comes from apparatchiks who have been on the warpath because the wife if a rapist list her Caesarean creeds.
In the cartoon she is come behind by the Prince of shady groves, a name gotten from the Penthamerone rimes, an Italian collection. He tells the pretty, brunette, sexy rabbit, and he tells a limerick to recall the older days if his playboy after dark Jo Collins adoring charm, before he hid in Salem cellers: Oh, there once was a girl from Sparta,who could play any tune in her Garta ,the boys all hummed along, as she played any asked dong, from the anthem to Ludwig’s moonlight.Sonata
Day 29. Having heard house everything’s unwilling to call it a Chinese flu now, although I do believe the Roman aspects of PAN-demic and especially Influenza are still kosher I heard the Divine name Ovid be used by those hanger ons whose in laws seemingly don’t yet die.
So I had a copy of Ovid’s Festivals bought for me as a Christmas gift a brother has always have given me, but never on Christmas. I took the paper back unfinished poem as a kind of Elixer of my own that relatives of them on A Bigger Check are allotted as we find out on Tameron’s show that people are hectored out if taking with death threats showing again backhands change but their tactics never do. Vainly, I try to remember the honorable Fiasco’s and buffoneries of the Italians though, as old curias governed by old coots think themselves as capable of ripping purple mantles from the previous Prince’s of the yellow boughs, those still hidden in the silver woods if Stappolobolas that are unknown by the hags of illiterate magic’s.
I was now, as in that book, confronted with an earliest imagery of these less than villa-ed days. There was the girl I’ve seen before, Wendy Fiore, Italian pin up girl every bit of the antithesis and analogy Beatrice worthy of Italian pages long been yellowed and dried, and yet irrevocably modern. There she was standing there on what I’d imagine is called a Dell, a green slope of grass in the back of the apartment house to which we were reduced a while ago, back in one if the first cataclysms, that old strega Pilosi thinks is always a way to go get herself elected.
I stood here now in the receding list spring daytime’s turning into night. She sat there in the sad and dignified hat and boas and sheer dress of a placard seen as now art that were on the old papers my mom had kept from her trunks from Regium, which were pages of four colored printed dresses and designs that were sold by the grand department stores at Nae’s, the massive teeming, gorgeous city that was up along the A1 Roman road, in time immemorial built to unify the peninsula since the Gracchus Bro’s.
There she stood with her cadre of blue black birds, the smartest if birdies for the smartest if princesses, an italic innovation not much used by uncle Walt in his life’s work of strip-mining Ta-lien folktales, as the Grimm’s brothers had done before. She wire a hat filled with swan feathers and wax and wooden fruits attached, and wore a one piece, rose red, swimming suit that ,as they do, was more sexually charged than any vulgar bikini could have ever been, as her ample shape– which can be seen and amazingly is demeaned and sneered at by the mean sissies of the Internet,–was hugged and held by the Capote era, Summer’s Crossing, Fontainebleau swimming pool style, bodice caressing and suit of sheer armour that she was poured into. See was less if a Disney Princess than a runaway girl who had escaped a doge, which unlike resurgimento’s, we never run out.
I had recently seen the same thing in Ovid’s Festivals, as he too in exile, had gone to the ancient italic paganism to recreate the fallen, Antony defeated world as witches whom he lived and adored until they showed up in the henna now suddenly no woman seemingly ever used, as they pretend a new found love of bridge and tunnel hair. She appeared to be in all her Apuleius finery, again there is no better Italian folktales and it does exist as an owing to a caliber of womanhood, Hillary did ignore and their crypts now unseen as unnoticed now, worse, she as the smartest princess who appears in Calvino’s book.
She winked a native, massive, darkest dye, the color of the coffee my mother drank when I was a boy, that came out of tins of tripartite rye blood and ice, flag coloring, with a fascistic stuck seal and golden script. She smiled at me, as her feathers of her half Vegas/ half mother goose illuminated prorated book I had as a boy- it all comes from somewhere, I guess, started to glisten in the incoming longer days of the shuttered, coming, spring. IN this she showed the producing, if not self preserving attributes that all such dark haired girls have, lest they be raped and used into insignificance as Ma had told me some Luther’s barbarians had believed war bridge blown, booted, collected hostage wives were supposed to do.
I knew as strange as it sounded for someone as 2D as she had always been to me, though got some nice notes from her when she had seen the first Venus I had made if her and did sell one to do one who, like me was smitten overtly by this goddess. But I had fallen for her, no different as if saw her standing there in all her Italian girl glory at a May day festival in the Florence if 1264,a similar vita nova moment that I had seen turn TVLand crow Rachel Maddow’s stomach when similar boyhood Jesuit student brother Bill had tried to recast with he and Hillary as Dan and Bea Portinari, but unlike his believed Plautus didn’t remember in the theater, casting is all.
Suddenly this magically and sensual creature lied back on the grass as an Eva as Ma called her, might have done. I recalled to breathe as have had a problem with that for the last few years or so, as I stood in the back if the emme see white house that isn’t being protected as I know it is by some. As suddenly her areola like magic or the mass if Hali if dark brown mink hair snapped and I was in what looked like an Etruscan house made into a ad hoc salon in the ancientness citta of such salons ,as I’d seen old decaying and yet honorable and sad frescoes
of rabbili as Ma called the animals they had to eat and not just make sarcastic cartoons out of, hung on the otherwise empty halls.
I looked out into the pillars that looked like a drawing I had done as a teenager and got as an early publishing and got published again last year. The old city sprawled under me, towards a nearby sea, which as strange, as have known of course that Rome, as I knew this had to be, was landlocked, a fact known since I was A Roman addled laddie.
There on The Wall of Tuscan topaz and magneta red was my drawing-room of we do as the Venus we School boys are so enamored of, if we aren’t as my pop warned me, become the heinous button men and rapists, of whom, he said, they never were at the Cyclops or the National Biscuit Company, never get enough.
The Italy I had come to now was as quiet as it must have been when Constantine left all unprotected, unguarded, and ran to mother Turkey as he had. It was eerily seen by me in this Faraway vision. My blood so approved and I felt empathy for these people of the middle sea.
I now suddenly felt badly recalling the day that newly minted voice of God who never fit the chair, Dan Rather, more of a man in the scrum with a Cyclops in his lapel than any anchor, said to my father’s chagrin that G.G. Marquez had won a prize for magic realism for a literary device called magic realism, which two years before In Stockholm the collected white priests thought beneath them when Italo Calvino was nominated. Again, looking back I wonder how I ever questioned my elderly father when he warned me of the cesspool that the new Yorker has become even more vituperative as the ancient new Amsterdam, I have heard allows itself to decay into an old Deli.
Alone, I saw my Venus so attached to the wall. And like in the previous cartoon, up from behind me came the Praetor of our time,the hillbilly Marius, the man who has been on and off various backs. I turned and smiled at him,as the sharpest and mist gun colored blue eyes I had seen since an Italian girl knew if who looked like a Rizzo in a Summer stock of Grease.
Did you make that…? He asked me, as the hillbilly Prince before me, wore a black winter coat like a Roman cape. I nodded to his twinkling maliciousness. Like Virgil I have found in him a kind of Augustan hero. Or maybe more like Hank Ketchum.
Yes, I said. But didn’t mention I had gone to the Pittsburgh Press and it’s sports director Bruce Kiden and showed him, in a first year in art school and a first year if Clinton a comic cartoon if him before. Half in Roman drag Brother Bill did stand there in a poison green black suit and with a Roman Cutlass and next to him stood a Greek like tin of sardines my mother bought packed in salt, purposefully for the ancient Italian art of pickling, but this can said a warning in one word –Worms. We may again as my brother noticed often, I may be the Auger, yet, again.
Back away was this newest Vesta, as she appears in Ovid, and now my works of exile, too. She lounged back as the cats and birds were her best attributes at changing fates and, like the Etruscan goddess she assuredly was, which she appeared to resemble, she wore a holster and in it a hammer of wood and a bag of nails, all that showed at any time signorina Fortuna here could nail you good. I just imagine. See was at her best Julie Numar, brunette liveliness, which I always liked and bow to, annoy called into the crumbling city to explain what I did or hadn’t done at NBC, as done suddenly are. He looked at me, and noticed her as he must have already while tooling around the Internet , as an active mind can only now nurse grudges.
He looked at the drawing which hung up on the marble studied wall. I looked out past the red black pillars, out into the quiet Hesperian night that seemed to go on in all directions to where the inky dragons hid in catty corners in ancient, hinted, maps. My father, literate and stoic, had been appalled as had Gore Vidal, and Salmon Rushdie, at the vulgarity of middlebrows, who not only made a point of denying him any Viking crown, but when he had died, they had sent a Kelly girl from the New York times to sneer at him as he was interred. And he had often wished that Columbus had fallen into those edge of the map folds as we would have been spared a western hemisphere, that was a Savage Forrest,in which people who had been the first go have programs against the Jews and Sicilians could laughingly call themselves Latin after the fields dells of gold and green, where Turnus the inkier haired was once a unbelievable to clients now, Italian, Nobel, king.
Nice work, he said, as I looked out into the black moving water of I guessed was the middle sea. I do love the idea of Venus, he smirked. A moon as far away from mother Earth as she had ever been was in a warning crescent stage as there wasn’t much light except in the wall and maybe not ironically on the feather wearing gal over there in the immense room that it was based upon. I thanked him.
Why did this seem as real, maybe the word was true, after all, than anything going on now. People already speak of a planneddemic, would I , a reader of Manzoni a parish priest of literature, no insult by me, could it strain credulity to think that the Shylocks and the Tarpeas if now would be beyond such…? Would I have faith in shameless clerks that they’d be what…? …too human too human to keep their new found Sparta as run by chicken Hawks room ever letting men come from De Bellum Americanum…?
I looked past the wall of pillars, out past the sheer walls of new Rome, or oldest Rome, or whatever this was. I saw an image worthy of James Whale as a fittingly black hand in arthritic, no, post mortum gnarled rip was witch black against the blue black sky of the first suburbanites. As Wendy fed a shimmering black bird a feast of crackers bread, like the line beloved by me by the black italic Jesuit saint Nicola who said politics was a connvivio of hard tack and pork lard, I looked at Roman man there and spoke as truthful as I would go a powerful man ,as unlike some, decorum was instilled in me by nuns.
If some diabolical gorse, I said, Was behind this, if some black hand was the puppeteer here, I spoke and took a breath not as afraid of the steep sandstone walled incline, as I might have been, If any one for a paltry puple sash was behind this and in reverse Gheppetto nade old ladies raped my father’s cesspool, in his times, suck for wind, I said, I wish them, I said to crash their imperial caught on Virgil’s alters I said, And I wish them nothing but the worst of fates…
He laughed, this mixture of Barrister from Rope and Herman Munster, both roles I believe played by basso profound Harvard Lampoon editor, beloved by me, tile salesman, Fred Gwynne. Oh he said as if a child of fates, a Caesarean as there hadn’t been in a long while. Oh, he assured me, If one Italian girl here, not your Maw, he said un-meanly, She was 90 bless her heart, no not her…He said looking directly at the kind of gal who caught his gaze since sweet old Bill was reading Capt. Billy’s Whiz Bang and stealing smokes on the back yard porch as he still is on, or off most if his life.
If one Angelica did fall to this, he said as he was raising a hand at the cracked moon, Those who deserve it will get theirs, he said with assurance from someone or something, as Wendy the goddess played with the paws of a cat whose hair was the color of the sea that was unnoticed below.